University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A grove adjoining to a castellated building, part of which only is seen. Several people are discovered near the window of one of its towers who begin to sing as the curtain draws up.
Song of several voices.

Enter Page.
Page.
Leave off your morning songs, they come too late;
My lady hath been up these two good hours,
And hath no heart to listen to your lays!
You should have cheer'd her sooner.

1st sing.
Her nightly vigils make the evening morn.
And thus we reckon'd time.

Page.
Well, go ye now;
Another day she'll hear your carols out.

[Exeunt page and singers severally, by the bottom of the stage, while Ulrick and Terentia enter by the front, speaking as they enter.
Ul.
Thou pleadst in vain: this night shall be the last.

Ter.
Have patience, noble Ulrick; be assur'd,
Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone,
Comes to a natural end. Then let Aurora,
Night after night, upon the lofty cliff,
Her beacon watch: despondency, ere long,
Will steal upon the sad unvaried task.

Ul.
Sad and unvaried! Ay; to sober minds
So doth it seem indeed. I've seen a child,
Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring
The wonted mess, prepared against its waking,
'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt:
Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out
His rod and baitless line from morn till noon,
Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare
A thousand times hath glided, till by force
His angry dame hath dragg'd him from his station.
Hope is of such a tough continuous nature,
That, waiting thus its natural end, my life
Shall to a close wear sadly. Patience, sayst thou!
I have too long been patient.

Ter.
Then be it known to thee, despondency
Already steals upon her; for she sits not
So oft as she was wont upon the beach,
But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence;
And when the night is come, less eagerly
She now inquires if yet the beacon's light
Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff
Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess,
Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more.

Ul.
No, thou unwisely guessest. By that flame
I do believe some spirit of the night
Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear
With whisper'd prophecies of good to come.

Ter.
In truth, my lord, you do yourself talk strangely.
These are wild thoughts.

Ul.
Nay, be thou well assur'd,
Spell-bound she is: night hath become her day;
On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous things
(Shunning the sober intercourse of friends
Such as affliction courts), her ear and fancy
Do solely dwell. This visionary state
Is foster'd by these nightly watchings; therefore,
I say again, I will no more endure it;
This night shall be the last.

Ter.
That Ermingard upon the plains of Palestine
Fell on that fatal day, what sober mind
Can truly doubt; although his corpse, defaced,
Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd.
For well I am assured, had he survived it,
Knowing thou wert his rival, and Aurora
Left in this isle, where thou bearst sov'reign sway,
He, with a lover's speed, had hasten'd back.
All, whom the havoc of the battle spared,
Have to their homes return'd.—Thou shak'st thy head,
Thou dost not doubt?

Ul.
We'll speak of this no more.
I'm sick and weary of these calculations.
We must and will consider him as dead;
And let Aurora know—

Enter Bastiani.
(To Bast. angrily.)
Why, Bastiani,
Intrud'st thou thus, regardless of my state:
These petty cares are grown most irksome to me;
I cannot hear thee now.

Bast.
Indeed, my lord, it is no petty care
Compels me to intrude. Within your port
A vessel from the Holy Land has moor'd.

Ul.
(starting).
Warriors from Palestine?

Bast.
No, good my lord!
The holy legate on his way to Rome;
Who by late tempests driven on our coasts,
Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit,
And give refreshment to his weary train.

Ul.
In evil hour he comes to lord it here.

Bast.
He doth appear a meek and peaceful man.

Ul.
'Tis seeming all. I would with mailed foes
Far rather in th' embattled plain contend,
Than strive with such my peaceful town within.
Already landed, sayst thou?

Bast.
Yes, from the beach their grave procession comes.
Between our gazing sight and the bright deep
That glows behind them in the western sun,
Crosses and spears and croziers show aloft
Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct confusion;
While grey-cowl'd monks, and purple-stoled priests,
And crested chiefs, a closing group below,
Motley and garish, yet right solemn too,
Move slowly on.—

Ul.
Then must I haste to meet them.

Bast.
Or be most strangely wanting in respect.
For every street and alley of your city
Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon them:
The very sick and dying, whose wan forms
No more did think to meet the breath of heaven,
Creep to their doors, and stretch their wither'd arms
To catch a benediction. Blushing maids,
Made bold by inward sense of sanctity,
Come forth with threaded rosaries in their hands
To have them by the holy prelate bless'd;
And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up,
That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe
May bring them good. And in fair truth, my lord,
Among the crowd the rev'rend legate seems
Like a right noble and right gentle parent,
Cheering a helpless race.

Ul.
Ay, 'tis right plain thou art besotted too.
Were he less gentle I should fear him less.

[Exit.
Bast.
He's in a blessed mood: what so disturbs him?

Ter.
What has disturb'd him long, as well thou knowest:
Aurora's persevering fond belief
That her beloved Ermingard still lives,
And will return again. To guide his bark
Upon our dang'rous coast, she nightly kindles
Her watch-fire, sitting by the lonely flame;
For so she promis'd, when he parted from her,
To watch for his return.

Bast.
Ulrick in wisdom should have married them
Before he went, for then the chance had been
She had not watch'd so long.
Your widow is a thing of more docility
Than your lorn maiden.—Pardon, fair Terentia.

Ter.
Thy tongue wags freely. Yet I must confess,
Had Ulrick done what thou callst wisely, he
The very thing had done which as her kinsman
He was in duty bound to. But, alas!
A wayward passion warp'd him from the right,
And made him use his power ungen'rously
Their union to prevent.

Bast.
But though the death of Ermingard were prov'd,
Thinkst thou Aurora would bestow her hand
On one who has so long her wishes cross'd,
A lover cloth'd in stern authority?

Ter.
I know not; Ulrick fondly so believes;
And I, although allied to him by blood,
The playmate also of his early days,
Dare not an opposite opinion utter.

Bast.
Hark there! I hear without th' approaching crowd.
My duty on this public ceremony
I must attend, for honour of the state.
In petty courts like this, on such occasions,
One spangled doublet more or less bears count.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

An arbour, supported by rustic wooden pillars, twined round with flowers and green plants, and a flowergarden seen in the background between the pillars. Enter Page, followed by Edda, speaking as she enters.
Edda.
Yes, do so, boy; Aurora is at hand.—
But take with thee, beside, this little basket,
And gather roses in the farther thicket,
Close to the garden-gate.—

Page
(taking the basket).
Give it me then. She chid me yesterday
For gath'ring full-spread roses, whose loose leaves
Fell on her lap: to-day I'll fill my basket
With buds, and blossoms, and half open'd flowers,
Such as nice dames do in their kerchiefs place.

Edda.
Prate less and move thee quicker. Get thee hence.
See there, thy mistress comes: haste to thy task.

[Exit page.
Enter Aurora, and Terentia.
Ter.
Here you will find a more refreshing air;
The western sun beats fiercely.

Aur.
Western sun!
Is time so far advanced? I left my couch
Scarcely an hour ago.

Ter.
You are deceiv'd.
Three hours have past, but past by you unheeded;
Who have the while in silent stillness been,
Like one forlorn, that has no need of time.

Aur.
In truth I now but little have to do
With time or any thing besides. It passes;
Hour follows hour; day follows day; and year,
If I so long shall last, will follow year:
Like drops that through the cavern'd hermit's roof
Some cold spring filters; glancing on his eye
At measur'd intervals, but moving not
His fix'd unvaried notice.

Edda.
Nay, dearest lady, be not so depress'd.
You have not ask'd me for my song to-day—
The song you prais'd so much. Shall I not sing it?
I do but wait your bidding.

Aur.
I thank thy kindness; sing it if thou wilt.

[Sits down on a low seat, her head supported between both her hands, with her elbows resting on her knees.
SONG.
Where distant billows meet the sky,
A pale, dull light the seamen spy,
As spent they stand and tempest-tost,
Their vessel struck, their rudder lost;
While distant homes where kinsmen weep,
And graves full many a fathom deep,
By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts pourtray:
“'Tis some delusion of the sight,
Some northern streamer's paly light.”
“Fools!” saith rous'd Hope with gen'rous scorn,
“It is the blessed peep of morn,
And aid and safety come when comes the day.”
And so it is; the gradual shine
Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lengthen'd line:
Cloud after cloud begins to glow
And tint the changeful deep below;
Now sombre red, now amber bright,
Till upward breaks the blazing light;
Like floating fire the gleamy billows burn:
Far distant on the ruddy tide,
A black'ning sail is seen to glide;
Loud bursts their eager joyful cry,
Their hoisted signal waves on high,
And life, and strength, and happy thoughts return.

Ter.
Is not her voice improv'd in power and sweetness?

Edda.
It is a cheering song.

Aur.
It cheers those who are cheer'd.
[After a pause.
Twelve years are past;
Their daughters matrons grown, their infants youths,
And they themselves with aged furrows mark'd;
But none of all their kin are yet return'd;
No, nor shall ever.

Ter.
Still run thy thoughts upon those hapless women
Of that small hamlet, whose advent'rous peasants
To Palestine with noble Baldwin went,
And ne'er were heard of more?

Aur.
They perish'd there; and of their dismal fate
No trace remain'd—none of them all return'd.
Didst thou not say so?—Husbands, lovers, friends,
Not one return'd again.

Ter.
So I believe.

Aur.
Thou but believest then?

Ter.
As I was told—

Edda.
Thou hast the story wrong.
Four years gone by, one did return again;
But marr'd, and maim'd, and chang'd—a woeful man.

Aur.
And what though every limb were hack'd and maim'd,
And roughen'd o'er with scars?—he did return.
[Rising lightly from her seat.
I would a pilgrimage to Iceland go,
To the antipodes or burning zone,
To see that man who did return again,
And her who did receive him.—Did receive him.!
O what a moving thought lurks here!—How was't?
Tell it me all: and oh, another time,
Give me your tale ungarbled.—
Enter Viola.
Ha, Viola! 'tis my first sight of thee
Since our long vigil. Thou hast had, I hope,
A sound and kindly sleep.

Viola.
Kindly enough, but somewhat cross'd with dreams.

Aur.
How cross'd? what was thy dream? O tell it me!
I have an ear that craves for every thing
That hath the smallest sign or omen in it.
It was not sad?

Viola.
Nay, rather strange; methought
A christ'ning feast within your bower was held;
But when the infant to the font was brought,
It prov'd a full-grown man in armour clad.

Aur.
A full-grown man! (Considering for a moment, and then holding up her hands.)
O blessing on thy dream!
From death to life restor'd is joyful birth.
It is, it is! come to my heart, sweet maid,
[Embracing Viola.
A blessing on thyself and on thy sleep!
I feel a kindling life within me stir,
That doth assure me it has shadow'd forth
A joy that soon shall be.

Ter.
So may it prove!
But trust not such vain fancies, nor appear
Too much elated; for unhappy Ulrick
Swears that your beacon, after this night's watch,
Shall burn no more.

Aur.
He does! then will we have
A noble fire. This night our lofty blaze
Shall through the darkness shoot full many a league
Its streamy rays, like to a bearded star
Preceding changeful—ay, and better times.
It may in very truth. O if his bark
(For many a bark within their widen'd reach
The dark seas traverse) should our light descry!
Should this be so—it may; perhaps it will.
O that it might!—We'll have a rousing blaze!
Give me your hands.
[Taking Viola and Terentia gaily by the hands.
So lightly bounds my heart,
I could like midnight goblins round the flame
Unruly orgies hold.—Ha! think ye not,
When to the font our mail-clad infant comes,
Ulrick will a right gracious gossip prove?

Viola.
Assuredly, so will his honour prompt.

Aur.
Nay, rather say his pride. Methinks I see him;
His darken'd figure striding 'cross the hall,
While his high plume, that noddeth to and fro,
Show'th his perturb'd and restless courtesy.
Good, noble, happy wight! Yet woe betide
The luckless hound that fawns on him that day!
His dismal yell disturbs the ceremony.
Ha, ha! I needs must laugh.

Ter.
Indeed you let your fancy wildly run,
And disappointment will but prove the sharper.

Aur.
Talk not of disappointment; be assur'd
Some late intelligence hath Ulrick prompted
To these stern orders. On our sea there sails,
Or soon will sail, some vessel, which right gladly
He would permit to founder on the coast,
Or miss its course. But no, it will not be:
In spite of all his hatred, to the shore,
Through seas as dark as subterraneous night,
It will arrive in safety.

Ter.
Nay, sweet Aurora, feed not thus thy wishes
With wild unlikely thoughts; for Ulrick surely
No such intelligence hath had, and thou
But makest thy after-sorrow more acute,
When these vain fancies fail.

Aur.
And let them fail: though duller thoughts succeed,
The bliss e'en of a moment still is bliss.

Viola
(to Ter.)
Thou wouldst not of her dewdrops spoil the thorn,
Because her glory will not last till noon;
Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt,
Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't!
If this be wise, 'tis cruel.

Aur.
Thanks, gentle Viola; thou art ever kind.
We'll think to-morrow still hath good in store,
And make of this a blessing for to-day,
Though good Terentia there may chide us for it.

Ter.
And thus a profitable life you'll lead,
Which hath no present time, but is made up
Entirely of to-morrows.

Aur.
Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll worship still
The blessed morrow, storehouse of all good
For wretched folks. They who lament to-day,
May then rejoice: they who in misery bend
E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed.
O! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours
May of returning joy contain? To-morrow!
The blest to-morrow! cheering, kind to-morrow!
I were a heathen not to worship thee. (To Ter.)

Frown not again; we must not wrangle now.

Ter.
Thou dost such vain and foolish fancies cherish,
Thou forcest me to seem unkind and stern.

Aur.
Ah! be not stern. Edda will sing the song
That makes feet beat and heads nod to its tune;
And even grave Terentia will be moved
To think of pleasant things.

SONG.

Aur.
(who at first nods her head lightly to the measure, now bursts into tears, taking Edda's hands between hers, and pressing them gratefully).
I thank thee: this shall be our daily song:
It cheers my heart, although these foolish tears
Seem to disgrace its sweetness.

Enter Page.
Viola
(to Aur.)
Here comes your page with lightly-bounding steps,
As if he brought good tidings.

Edda.
Grant he may!

Aur.
(eagerly).
What brings thee hither, boy?

Page
(to Aur.).
A noble stranger of the legate's train,
Come from the Holy Land, doth wait without,
Near to the garden gate, where I have left him;
He begs to be admitted to your presence;
Pleading for such indulgence as the friend
Of Ermingard, for so he bade me say.

Aur.
The friend of Ermingard! the Holy Land!
[Pausing for a moment, and then tossing up her arms in ecstasy.
O God! it is himself!
[Runs eagerly some steps towards the garden, then catching hold of Terentia, who follows her.
My head is dizzy grown; I cannot go.
Haste, lead him hither, boy.
[Waving her hand impatiently.
Fly; hearst thou not?

[Exit page.
Ter.
Be not so greatly moved. It is not likely
This should be Ermingard. The boy has seen him,
And would have known him. 'Tis belike some friend.

Aur.
No; every thrilling fibre of my frame
Cries out “it is himself.”
[Looking out.
He comes not yet: how strange! how dull! how tardy!

Ter.
Your page hath scarce had time to reach the gate,
Though he hath run right quickly.

Aur.
(pausing and looking out).
He comes not yet. Ah! if it be not he;
My sinking heart misgives me.
O now he comes! the size and air are his.

Ter.
Not to my fancy; there is no resemblance.

Aur.
Nay, but there is: and see, he wears his cloak
As he was wont to do; and o'er his cap
The shading plume so hangs.—It is! it is!
Enter Garcio; and she, breaking from Terentia, runs towards him.
My lost, my found, my blest! conceal thee not.

[Going to catch him in her arms, when Garcio takes off his plumed cap, and bows profoundly. She utters a faint cry, and shrinks back.
Gar.
Lady, I see this doffed cap hath discover'd
A face less welcome than the one you looked for.
Pardon a stranger's presence; I've presumed
Thus to intrude, as friend of Ermingard,
Who bade me—

Aur.
Bade thee! is he then at hand?

Gar.
Ah, would he were!
'Twas in a hostile and a distant land
He did commit to me these precious tokens,
Desiring me to give them to Aurora,
And with them too his sad and last farewell.

Aur.
And he is dead!

Gar.
Nay, wring not thus your hands:
He was alive and well when he entrusted me
With what I now return.

[Offering her a small casket.
Aur.
Alive and well, and sends me back my tokens!

Gar.
He sent them back to thee as Ulrick's wife;
For such, forced by intelligence from hence
Of strong authority, he did believe thee:
And in that fatal fight, which shortly follow'd,
He fought for death as shrewdly as for fame.
Fame he indeed hath earn'd.

Aur.
But not the other?
Ah, do not say he has! Among the slain
His body was not found.

Gar.
As we have learnt, the Knights of blest St. John
Did from the field of dying and of wounded
Many convey, who in their house of charity
All care and solace had; but with the names,
Recorded as within their walls receiv'd,
His is not found; therefore we must account him
With those who, shrouded in an unknown fate,
Are as the dead lamented, as the dead
For ever from our worldly care dismiss'd.

Aur.
Lamented he shall be; but from my care
Dismiss'd as are the dead—that is impossible.

Ter.
Nay, listen to advice so wise and needful:
It is the friend of Ermingard who says,
Let him within thy mind be as the dead.

Aur.
My heart repels the thought; it cannot be.
No, till his corse, bereft of life, is found,
Till this is sworn, and prov'd, and witness'd to me,
Within my breast he shall be living still.

Ter.
Wilt thou yet vainly watch night after night,
To guide his bark who never will return?

Aur.
Who never will return! And thinkest thou
To bear me down with such presumptuous words?
Heaven makes me strong against thee:
There is a Power above that calms the storm,
Restrains the mighty, gives the dead to life:
I will in humble faith my watch still keep;
Force only shall restrain me.

Gar.
Force never shall, thou noble, ardent spirit!
Thy gen'rous confidence would almost tempt me
To think it will be justified.

Aur.
Ha! sayst thou so? A blessing rest upon thee
For these most cheering words! Some guardian power
Whispers within thee.—No, we'll not despair.

Enter Ulrick.
Ul.
(to Gar.)
Your dismal mission is, I trust, fulfill'd;
Then, gentle Garcio, deem it not unkind
That I entreat you to retire; for they
Who sorrow for the dead, love to be left
To grieve without constraint.

Aur.
Thanks for your kind concern, most noble sir;
And when we needs must sorrow for the dead,
We'll freely grieve without constraint. But know,
Until our corse is found, we ring no knell.
If then your ear for funeral dirges long,
Go to some other bower; hope still is here.

Ul.
Ha! still perversely bent? what can convince thee?
This is distraction.

Aur.
Be it what it may,
It owns not thy authority. Brave youth (to Gar.),

I owe thy gentleness some kind acknowledgment:
I'll find another time to give thee thanks.

[Exit, followed by Viola and Edda.
Ul.
Such hope is madness! yield we to her humour?
No, she must be to sober reason brought,
By steady, firm control.

Gar.
Mean you by this, my lord, a fore'd control?

Ul.
Who shall inquire my meaning?

Gar.
The holy legate, patron of th' oppress'd,
Will venture to inquire.

Ul.
Ay, as his nephew, thou presum'st, I see.
But know, bold youth, I am unused to threats.

Gar.
Yet brook them as you may. I take my leave.

[Exit.
Manent Ulrick and Terentia.
Ul.
Did I not say these cursed meddling priests—
These men of meekness, wheresoe'er they come,
Would rule and power usurp? Woe worth the hour
That brought them here!—and for this headstrong maniac.
As such, I will—

Ter.
Hush, hush! these precincts quit.
It is not well, here to expose to view
Thy weak ungovern'd passions. Thou'rt observ'd;
Retire with me, where screen'd from ev'ry eye,
With more possession of thy ruffled mind,
Thou mayst consider of thy wayward state.

[Exeunt.